Who cradles his wing in the home of the blast,
When the cloud-troops are angrily hurrying past,
And the voice of the thunder is heard:
We have wet thy scarred decks with the hallowèd blood
Of those who have battled for us on the flood,
And blessed thee with hearts, which the freemen alone
Can possess, when we saw thee sit firm on thy throne
Of the dark-rolling waters.
Go forth, gallant one!—
Go forth in thy glory and pomp o’er the main,